


Passing The Torch

by Etrius_Lloyd



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-29 03:11:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18770026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etrius_Lloyd/pseuds/Etrius_Lloyd
Summary: Short work based on the latest expansion of Destiny 2.The Last City needs new heroes...





	Passing The Torch

Passing The Torch.

 

If there was anything that everyone agreed on, it was that the Last City looked most beautiful at night. Unblinking, Zavala gazed upon the sea of lights that stretched out before him, shimmering and flickering, alive. Hanging high above it all, the Traveler blotted out the stars with its titanic, broken frame, the Light dancing around the circling fragments. So beautiful. So precious. It almost made him feel at peace. Almost.

_Cayde’s dead eyes stare past him. Black hole in his chest. A cold corpse under a golden cloth._

With a groan, the steel railing crumpled under the Titan’s trembling grip.

“Zavala, a moment of your time, please.”

Quickly, the commander steadied himself and turned to face Ikora’s bitter stare.

“I won’t change my mind, Ikora. We have a duty to the city.”

“That’s not why I’m here,” she said, masking her grief with smoldering anger. “We have another problem, one that has affected all of.”

Zavala’s sky-blue eyes moved across the empty square. A purple ball laid abandoned in the Postmaster’s corner. “I have noticed…”

With soft steps, the Warlock joined Zavala’s side, pausing for a moment as she took in the sight of the city. “Cayde’s… death-” a soft shiver stirred her shoulders “-has hurt the Tower, hurt us. And now our symbol of hope has gone to hunt Uldren Sov, to claim vengeance while we are left behind.”

Zavala felt the poison in her words, the invisible fangs bared at him, but grief had a way of numbing everything. Besides, the City needed them; the Guardians could not afford to lose themselves in a mad quest for revenge, no matter how much they wanted to…  “I assume you have a plan.”

“We need to boost morale,” Ikora concluded. “I want to assemble a fireteam of our strongest Guardians who we can rally behind, who can guide us. An absolute force to bring us comfort.”

“Who do you have in mind?”

Ikora straightened her back as she named their heroes with the respect they deserved. “The Wall of Russia, the Thaumaturge, and Headhunter.”

With wide eyes, the commander turned towards Ikora. This was bold. Even for her. “You want to assemble the Raiders?”

Ikora nodded softly. “Zavala, our friend is powerful, but there are five others that bear the title of Kingslayer. Oryx did not fall by one hand. Same as Crota. The Vault of Glass was not opened by a single Guardian. And the challenge of Emperor Callus was answered by six.”

Zavala considered the idea, rolling it around his mind like a taste in his mouth, but found the aftertaste bitter. “I will not permit the Headhunter to play a hero.”

“He’s a superb Hunter,” Ikora countered.

“ _Cayde_ was a superb Hunter!” Zavala snapped, harder than he intended, and instantly regretted speaking the name when it cut through his heart. “Headhunter is a sadist and a Guardian killer!”

The corner of Ikora’s eye twitched dangerously, but she managed to maintain her composure. “We all agreed Therrok the Mad needed to be dealt with. And if not for Abel’s guerilla strikes against the Red Legion, the war might’ve ended very differently.”

Zavala’s eyes darkened and he turned away. “That man loved every minute of that war…”

“The Wall keeps him in check.”

“I approve of Thror.” Zavala nodded, proud. “A fine Titan.”

“Yes, he’s a hero, and loved. But we need more than just a shield. We need a blade to strike at the Darkness.”

“The Thaumaturge is a power-hungry menace. Not a blade.”

“Chime thirsts for power, yes, but she has a good heart to guide her.”

“She disrespects the Light.”

“That Warlock saved hundreds of lives when the city fell, despite the danger. All of them did. When all was lost, they stood and fought and survived, like they always do. The ultimate defense, devastating offense, and the perfect marksman. They are the strength we need, Zavala, our torchbearers, whether you like it or not.”

Zavala looked around the deserted Tower. Everyone had gone, drowning their grief, venting it in the crucible, or drifting aimlessly between planets. Ikora was right. They needed hope.

“Very well…”  

 

Chime, The Thaumaturge

 

Meditation. Reflecting on your Light. Gathering knowledge to expand your mind. What a load of crap. Chime had never in her new life reflected on anything. From the moment she was reborn, her Light had burned brighter than anything else. She mastered Sol in weeks, the Void in days, and when she had felt like it, she yanked the Storm from the sky. Her enemies were molten ash, her fellow Guardian were infants, and the Light was her servant to use, her weapon to wield. Truly, she had no equal.

Or so she used to think…

Chime sat down at the center of the largest crater on Io, the exact same place the Traveler had touched when it came here. Light, like mist, swirled around her, flowing through her, whispering. It had been months since she had last moved, her mind detached from her shell, exploring her mindscape.

When the Red Legion came and caged the Light, they had disarmed her, stripping her of power. No more flaming swords, no more lightning, nothing left. A boltshot had torn a hole in her side and struck her down. But amidst her burning agony and impotent despair, she could hear the children screaming, people dying. And so, she pulled herself from the cold floor and picked up whatever weapons she could find. And that had only been the beginning of the war.

Fighting and retreating, bleeding and killing, dragging the wounded through fire and mud. But it was never enough. The children kept screaming and people kept dying. Without her Light, she was nothing. She had taken it for granted, used it as a bratty child swinging an oversized stick around. And look where her arrogance had gotten her…

So, when Ghaul fell, and the Traveler woke, and her Light returned she embraced it as a friend, a lover, a mother, a daughter, and in return it brought her to Io where she sat and… reflected.

For days the Light spoke, and for days she listened, statue-like. Then the Light began showing her things, and for weeks she watched, nourished by knowledge. Then she began to feel things, changes inside of her, and for months she let them change her, until finally Chime touched that which dwelled within the heart of the Light.

Bright. Unfathomable. Infinite. It asked what she wanted. Chime gave her answer. And received. And when she finally opened her eyes, she saw. Truly saw.

The Thaumaturge let the Sun flow through her right arm. It roared _Burn! For I Am King!_ Then came the Storm, and it coursed through her left arm. The Lightning thundered _Strike! For I Am The Center!_ And finally, she let the Void pulse through her heart. The Nothing whispered _Devour. For I Am The Hunger._

And Chime decreed _Harmonize. For I am the Light._

When the Warlock rose at last, wreathed in all three elements, the universe shivered in her presence. She was perfect and absolute, beautiful and terrible, more powerful than Ikora Rey could ever be, more powerful that Osiris, than Toland! The strongest Warlock ever to have been touched by the Light.

“You did it!” Chasm cheered as he appeared in a puff of Light, dancing and shifting around her.

“ _We_ did it, darling,” Chime giggled and held her spiky Ghost in her burning hands, caressing him with her Light. “It’s unbelievable. I feel l could split this planet in _half_ if I tried!” She resisted the sudden impulse.

Chasm’s silver eye narrowed. “Please don’t…”

“So, how long was I out?”

“One hundred days.”

“One hundred?” Chime frowned. It felt like eons had passed. “Did I miss anything?”

Chasm stopped shifting his parts around and drooped sadly in the air. “…Cayde is dead.”

“What?! How did that happen?”

“Uldren Sov murdered him.”

“The emo prince?! How the hell did Cayde get done by _him?”_

“There was a prison break in the Prison of Elders. Things went bad… Ikora reached out asking you to come by the Tower. It sounded urgent.”

“Well shit…” Chime placed her hands in her side, not sure how she felt yet. “I liked Cayde. Funny Hunter…”

Suddenly something shifted in the air. Chime could taste it now, feel it on her azure skin. “Taken,” Chasm calmly warned and retreated back to wherever it was he went. “They must’ve felt you.”

All around the crater, pitch black blights oozed into existence, retching out misshapen forms that resembled the things they were before they were taken, their abdominal presence an afront to life and Light. But Chime welcomed them with a grin from ear to ear. Power demanded to be used, to be exercised, tried, tested, and what better way to test than on willing subjects.

“Come, blacklings,” she laughed at the Taken armada that closed in around her. “Come taste the Light.” In her right hand, the Dawn broke as a mighty blade; in her left, the Storm gathered; and the Void wrapped itself around her like a gown. “And let me show you what it means to truly _kill_ something.”

  

Thror, the Wall of Russia.

With an unwilling groan of steel on stone, the door swung open and disturbed centuries worth of dust and silence.

“Is there an exit?!”

Thror ducked his hulking frame through the doorway and breathed in the ancient air, tasting traces of decay. Something had died here, long ago.

“Sir?” A young Guardian stumbled behind him, the filters of his helmet obscuring the smell.

“The Ward will hold, Zim,” Thror growled in a voice that matched his pitch-black beard which didn’t match his snow-white hair. “Focus on why we’re here. Amber?”

A diamond-shaped Ghost whirred around the rotting bunker, taking in as much she could as fast she could. “The signal’s coming from deeper inside.”

Both Guardians ventured further through the concrete halls, their boots leaving deep prints in the dust. Zim flashed his rifle at every corner and crevice, but Thror knew there was nothing but roaches down here. People had lived here, though, at one time. They found beds and tables, empty cans and containers, and toys that once had a color.

A rumbling shook the complex, and Zim spun around, nearly tripping over his own feet. “What was that?!”

“Goliath,” Thror grumbled; he recognized the way the earth trembled. “They’re bringing in the big guns.”

“Shit! We have to get out of here!”

“The Ward will hold,” the Titan repeated, the words a habit by now.

“Signal’s through here,” Amber said, halting before a curtain serving as a door. Gently, the armored giant touched the brown fabric but it fell apart as soon as he did, disintegrating into yet more dust. Through the doorway they found a room like all the others – dark, dusty, and decaying – except for a small, ancient terminal built into the wall, and three skeletons sitting on the bed.

_Thus, the smell,_ Thror silently noted, and waved Amber towards the terminal while he knelt down at the dead. One adult, two children, holding each other, each of them with a hole in their skull.

“Anything?” Zim asked, nervously guarding the doorway.

“Terminal’s connected with a surface beacon. Looks like the distress signal was put on repeat and never stopped. There’s also books, music, games, and blueprints to this place.”

“Is there another exit?!”

“Take it,” Thror sighed, gently taking the rusted gun from the skeleton’s hand. “We’ll archive it later.”

At the end of the bed there was a notebook wrapped in plastic. Thror flipped through the yellowed pages, discovering it was a journal written by someone named Misha. Faded ink spoke of a community, hiding under the ground. There was fear and loss, darkness and monsters with four arms. Famine. Disease. People leaving. People dying. Until she was alone. No more food. No more water. The children are sick, starving. Misha won’t let them starve. Won’t let them suffer anymore. Mercy for the children…

“What’s that?” Zim asked when Thror took longer than intended.

“Nothing,” the Titan whispered, and hid away the journal in his sand-blasted robes. “Just echoes.”

Amber floated over the Titan’s shoulder. “Thror, Zavala is trying to reach you, but the signal’s having trouble penetrating the bunker.”

“Is that so? Then let’s head back up.”

“How?” the rookie chirped as the tremors grew in number. “They’re still out there!”

“You worry too much, young one,” Thror chuckled and slapped Zim on the back, knocking the air out of his lungs.

They left the dead to rest in peace and returned the way they came, through the steel door, up the stairs where they reached a hatch. Thror shoved the hatch open and stepped onto a barren world of rock, and snow, and brown grass, all of it dyed purple by the light of his Ward. Immediately, the army of Cabal fired everything they had at him, their swarms of bullets and mortars harmlessly rippling against the surface of the purple dome planted firmly on around the entrance.

Calmly, Thror did a quick count. Around 200 troops, a dozen Interceptors, Threshes, and no less than four Goliath tanks, all of them laying siege against his Ward of Dawn. A useless show of force. Not even the Taken King himself had been able to breach his Ward.

“Fucking hell!” Zim squealed from the hatch. “It’s an army!”

Ignoring the rookie, Thror opened a channel. “Commander Zavala, this is Thror, do you read me?”

_“Guardian. You are needed at the Tower. I have a mission for you. Priority one.”_

A blast from the Goliath’s cannon arced through the air and exploded against the Ward, not so much as scratching the surface.

“Understood. I’m on my way. Out.”

Zim grabbed for Thror’s robes, desperately tugging like a child at its mother’s dress. “Thror! T-There’s no way we can past that.”

Indeed… Even with Sparrows, breaking through would be difficult. As for fighting their way out… No. Zim would never make it. Inconvenient… “You know,” the Wall mumbled, hands in his sides. “I once knew a Warlock that could turn this whole valley into molten rock in a matter of minutes. Too bad she’s not here right now…”

“I might have something,” Amber said. “Blueprints show a tunnel South of the complex. It’s connected to a nearby bunker. Looks like there’s several in the vicinity. It’s quite a walk but it should smuggle us out.”

“Good work, my friend. Come, Zim.” With a smile, Thror took his trembling protégé by the shoulder and led him back inside the crypt. “Time to go home.”

 

Abel, the Headhunter.

The silver-robed Warlock darted across the field, towards the giant vat swirling with Darkness, eager to bank her motes.

“322 meters. East wind. 12 per hour,” Gun said.

Abel compensated for all this and pulled the trigger.

A Titan jumped out of a group of Dregs over by the ruins and raised a grenade in his hand.

“430 meters. Same conditions.”

Abel compensated, placed his shot on the grenade, and pulled the trigger.

A second Titan saw the shot and took cover behind the remnants of a brick wall.

“Same distance. Loading AP round.”

Abel aimed at the center of the wall and pulled the trigger twice.

“Contact nine o’clock,” Gun warned.

Abel spun around in the blink of an eye, snapped his crosshairs on the scope glint and pulled the trigger. Barely had he blown the other Hunter’s eye through his skull when the transmat yanked him back to his own team, who were still struggling with the Taken Minotaur that had leveled half the forest.

“Fucking amateurs,” Abel sighed and reached into his Light. From it, he channeled a golden shot into Gun. The Minotaur turned their Warlock into a red smear on the floor and turned around, its white eye focusing on the Headhunter. Then Abel pulled the trigger.

…

Back on his ship, Abel placed Gun in the weapon rack, releasing his Ghost into the ship, and dropped down his chair. “How many does that make?” he asked.

“788 Guardian kills in Gambit,” Gun replied and brought up performance statistics on screen. “Do I sign us up for another match?”

“No…” With a hiss of air, the Hunter removed his helmet, and scratched an itch on his hairless scalp. “Shit’s getting old.”

“Crucible then? Or a Nightfall strike, perhaps?”

A tired sigh escaped Abel as he stared out into the blackness of space. Bored. He was so bored. Fallen, Cabal, Vex, Hive, Taken. Even Guardians. It was always the same. No matter how big, how fast, how lethal they were. He shot, they died. Had the universe run out of challenges? Was there nothing left to hunt? Something worthy?

“A raid, Gun… That’s what I need. A new Oryx. Another Atheon. Something… unkillable.”

“A new Red War?”

The Hunter nodded silently. The truth was simple. With the Light, he was invincible. But without it… He was slower. Weaker. Unfocussed. There was cold. And hunger. And pain. Every shot hurt. Every cut bled. Every battle could be the last. A stray bullet was all it would take. No more charging at the enemy, but crawling, weeks of crawling and sneaking, scavenging for precious ammo, death just a whisper away.

Death. That was it. The possibility of death. To die and stay dead. No do-overs. A moment of carelessness and boom. The end.

A shiver crawled through Abel’s skin, the memory of hell as sweet as a woman’s kiss. Perhaps he could do it again… Remove the Light. Perhaps if she shot his Ghost…

“Are you thinking about killing me again?” Gun asked, calm and neutral. He knew Abel as well as Abel knew himself.

“It worked for Cayde,” Abel mumbled.

“I might have a better idea.”

“Hmm?”

“What if, instead of making you weaker, we made everything stronger?”

Abel frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“The Infinite Forest.”

“The Vex machine on Mercury?”

“Mercury _is_ the machine. A simulation room the size of a planet. It can generate entire combat scenarios so real there is no distinction between the real world.”

“Go on,” the Hunter urged, his interest piqued.

“I’ve been doing some thinking, and if we could find a way to create our own simulations, we could, simply put, increase the difficulty. Enemies that don’t stay dead, snipers that can shoot hundreds of miles, Archon priests with laser eyes. You name it!”

Abel’s eyes shimmered like a child’s. “Can… Can you do that?!”

“Unfortunately, no…” Gun admitted. “But I believe the Warlock Osiris has the key to it. He’s been inside the Forest for decades. If anyone knows how to operate it, it’s him.”

 “Well then!” Abel jumped up from his chair and punched in a course for the first rock from the sun. He felt like a new man, reborn and excited! Oryx… He’d kill Oryx again. But this time, he’d do it alone. “Let’s go find him!”

Suddenly the interface beeped with the annoying tune of an incoming message. “It’s Zavala,” Gun said. “He needs us back at the Tower. Priority one.”

“Fuck that guy,” Abel snickered and punched the hyperdrive. “We got a Warlock to hunt.”


End file.
